


You Can Stay At My Place

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:49:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21536251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: In which, Aziraphale falls.Asleep.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 221





	You Can Stay At My Place

Sleep has always, to Aziraphale, seemed… a waste. A… no. He can’t say ‘design flaw’, because that would imply that anything She did was less than perfect, and even if it might, in some circumstances, be… _possibly from his point of view perhaps maybe a little true_. It was, as Crowley scolded him for saying, ineffable. 

‘Ineffable is just what you say when you don’t understand, to make yourself feel better for not understanding. Just because **you** don’t, it doesn’t mean it _can’t_ be understood.’

Aziraphale could hear the demon as easily as if he were lying right there.

He was.

Lying right there.

In his own bed. Which he owned. For sleeping in. 

Which Aziraphale had politely declined, because sleep was a waste. It was time you could spend doing other things (reading). It worked for Humans, because their brains were so busy that they required some time to go into lower metabolism stages. And for other animals, though some had adapted to sleep with half the brain, or whilst flying, or swimming, or…

But he didn’t need to do it! And - and - around the time when Aziraphale had maybe been considering possibly flexing on the possibility of trying it, Crowley had up and _abandoned_ him for a **hundred year snooze** , and even though they’d been… on less than good terms, and he was still sure that Crowley was ‘the enemy’, he would never forgive sleep for giving him such a convenient and frustrating way out.

Because he hadn’t been the enemy. And he had been his… his… ‘friend’ was too poor a word for it. 

And he’s sleeping right now. In his bed. In his flat. In his… home. A home that Aziraphale had never even seen, before today. Which the demon had just invited him to ‘stay’ in. For? For how long? For as long as it took him to get another book store? For… forever?

The angel thinks if pushed, Crowley would say the first. And if never mentioned again, he would prove to have actually meant the latter. 

Forever. A day ago, that had been ‘eternity in what was supposed to be Heaven, or a few hours because you’ll cease to exist’. Six thousand years had just been blinked past - almost like a sleeper in a dream - all of creation, life, art, war, poetry, everything - with his primary contribution being the third creature to knowingly lie to the Almighty, and hand over his (literally) God-given sword to a newlywed couple as he ‘cast’ them out of Eden. After that, he’d done relatively minor things, if he was honest. Or, nothing like as important as he was capable of. He’d squandered his life just like a Human would.

Food. Drink. Books. Occasional kindness. Even more occasional not-so-kindness. Self-indulgent nights with music and words, telling of unreal worlds that he’d gotten lost in, like dreams captured in ink on skins of dead trees. He’d lived in other people’s dreams, when there’d been a world out there.

Of course he’d enjoyed the actual world, too. From the concerts and the parks and the soirees and the fine, fine foods and the…

...demon. Damned. Fallen one. _Crowley_.

The first being who had ever sought him out for the sake of himself. Who had wanted to be near him because _he was him_. Right? It was. It wasn’t just that he had no one better. Surely in Hell there had to - he’d - he…

Doubt is unpleasant, and the real enemy. Aziraphale looks away from the sleeping demon’s lax face, and wanders through the flat, instead. He doesn’t want his unrest to wake him. He’d said it was fine. Both of them had said it was fine. Crowley knew he didn’t sleep, Aziraphale knew that the day had taken its toll on the demon, and both of them had agreed it wouldn’t be strained at all if he left him to wander.

Which, in a way, is… scandalously intimate. Not that Crowley hadn’t seen every part of his own ‘home’, even the most sacred of sacreds, the sanctum sanctorum. The places that only he - and other angels who had _not been given invitations_ \- had been. 

But this… had another soul been here, since he called it his? He walks through the stark vertical lines that carve up this space, remarking how… sharp it seems, where his own place is - _had been_ \- soft. Tall, angular, almost brittle. Reflecting how they presented their inner selves in every way. 

And dominated by the few things that felt like…

He stares up at the lectern, feeling echoes of holiness in the spread of an eagle’s wings. He knows. He knows.

It’s.

The Church. It deserves the capital, more than the Vatican, in Aziraphale’s mind. The Church where a damned thing had rushed into pain and danger, to save something holy and alone. Crowley most certainly hadn’t needed to do it. He’d - he’d… 

He chokes up and turns away, overwhelmed by the weight of memory.

Crowley must like him for who he is. Otherwise, if he was just saving a business associate or asset… the books. He’d. They meant a lot to him, and Crowley had known, and… and… how foolish it was that books had mattered more to him in that instant than his own existence. The saving of them had felt more important, had…

He flees, and his eyes land on a sculpture. There’s no explanation, no… anything. 

Wings. Limbs. Violence, and a strange intimacy, bundled into one.

Is everything here them? Would anyone know from his shop that this demon meant as much to him as he did, as they’d see plain and simple from this flat? Did Crowley forget he’d painted his - his - _affection_ so obviously over his space, when he invited him back? Or had he planned this, one day. Planned to invite him back, when he couldn’t claim their ‘sides’ or speed as an issue. Had he…

His foot crunches paper, and for an instant he’s imagining his shop on fire, and the pain is like seeing Crowley leave all over again, and he looks down.

Alpha Centauri, says the text below the image plate. 

Nothing there but gas and fire. No life. No music. No food. No… people.

It would have been just them, and that’s… that is what had frightened the angel most of all. The knowledge that he’d have no reasons or ways to hide. He’d be forced to be - just be, just exist - with the other, forever. And whilst he was sure they would irritate one another no end, it would have been…

...he could have… they could have…

He’d have _known_. Crowley would have known the truths he’d been hiding from the demon. That yes, he did want to. Yes, he was rather invested in their contact, their… more-than-Arrangement. Continuing. Forever. And that eternity without him was abhorrent, and that the whole world was glorious, but that it was infinitely less glorious without him there to share in it. 

Alone, in space, there’d have been no comfortable ways to deflect. No ways to pretend, to dance around, to act like the reluctantly courted intended. No social lubrication, just… forever. Honest.

And honesty is the most awful concept of all. Since that first lie, about his sword, he’s lied so much he’s not sure how he doesn’t just declare himself to be Emperor when he meets people, or lie about how good meals were, or what books he likes, or… he’s lied so thoroughly, so entrenchedly, that to unpick those little fibs over the thousands of years would be to unwrite the universe itself, almost. 

If Crowley only knew…

But he does, doesn’t he?

He came back. He always came back. No matter how abysmally Aziraphale’s words abused him, he ignored them and heard the truth below. He rephrased, accommodated, changed tack. He walked on holy ground, or he drove through fire, and he always. Always. Came back.

Even those he’d done everything he could for had never even tried to meet him half way, let alone whatever it is Crowley has done. 

The demon deserves better. Aziraphale realises, with a sickening lurch, that better doesn’t even exist. Not for Crowley. There is no act four, with a surprise shift and the ideal angel. The deus ex mechana won’t roll down and forgive him. The magical prince or princess won’t be there. 

And if they were, Aziraphale knows, deep down, that Crowley wouldn’t want them. Perfect isn’t for him. Perfect had never been for him. He needed that edge of… something. Needed just enough light with the dark.

Just like the angel himself does.

He… he isn’t good enough. Not really. But he might be close enough to it, in Crowley’s eyes. 

A jam shut of his own, and he’s dressed in what he considers appropriate attire. Pale blue checked brushed cotton pyjamas. Bed socks. He stops short of the night cap, after a few moments of wobbling about the decision, and he pads quietly into the bedroom.

Crowley is sleeping. 

In his sleep, he’s an open book, if you forgive the worn-out metaphor. His eyes move beneath his lids, tracking images cast only by his mind. He’s knotted and tangled up in a little protective huddle, and his hair sticks up and to his face in equal measure. Plain, black clothing. Shorts and a simple sleeveless shirt. He wonders if those are normal, or if he’s dressed this way so as not to embarrass them both. 

He wouldn’t… object. Not if he invited him here. Not if he invited him to spend eternity trying to outrun God and Satan in the gas balls of infinity. Just the two of them. 

Aziraphale slips under the cover, taking care to be as far from the demon as he can. The heat from his slender body is palpable, and coats the angel’s in a light sheen of sweat. 

He can do this. He can sleep. How hard can it be?

***

The first thing he knows is that Crowley’s body is warmer than it should be, and that single cotton layers do nothing to hide his planes and slight curves. He’s not sure how it happened (yes he is), but he’s found a way to move closer, and to bracket the demon’s body from behind. A rump pressed against him, a lazy-breathing chest cradled in his arm. 

Crowley smells… well. The scent of smoke likely won’t leave for some time yet, and it’s burned paper, glue, metal, rubber, paint. He smells of this, and that sharp-rich thing that he can’t name, but which is - peculiarly - him. Aziraphale buries his nose at the nape of his neck, pushing into the short hair, feeling the pulse pound under his lips.

His lips. On that neck. The animal of his body reminding him this is _threat_ , but also _protection_. A she-beast scruffing her young to take them from danger. An alpha biting dominance into a submissive. A predator crunching through the resistance offered by prey.

Crowley is a serpent. Hunter, and hunted. Preying on rodents, running from cats, foxes, and more. He stirs in Aziraphale’s embrace, as those lips taste salt and don’t veer to snap or scoop, promising and threatening in one.

_Angel._

Gasped out, like a prayer, like an entreaty, like…

_Shhhh._

Hair prickles against his face at the command, and he feels the shudder that travels down the spine pressed against him. Crowley… arches. Curves. Bends. Shifts to meet him, as always. Accommodating his needs, finding a way to please him, to trick him, to…

Aziraphale does bite, then. Bites at the exposed curve of his throat, and growls in annoyance. Why has he always been like this? So eager for the angel’s attention. So ready to offer, to give. Why must he be so - so - **nice** , even if it’s twisted and warped and nothing like either of them should be?

Crowley. There to offer comfort. To offer companionship. To listen to him. To bring him things he’d like. To complain, but to capitulate. He’d never once pushed, when he’d said no. He’d cajoled, and danced and courted, but he’d always known when the answer was absolute.

Except once. Once. He’d begged and begged for the one thing he couldn’t bend on, and refused to abandon him, even after he’d been sure Aziraphale had died. He’d needed him, had…

That slender butt brushes against his lap as Crowley moves to indicate his willingness, which makes the angel smile and press harder on his belly. He’s taller, but he fits perfectly against him. Knees bent, like two crescent moons defying physics to combine. Like any creature, when they found their… mate. Their desired one. Their…

His palm plucks fabric up, meets warm, flinching belly, and feels the moan that he plucks from the instrument between his thighs and in his arms. Crowley reaches around and behind, his fingers seeking the same spot on the back of Aziraphale’s neck. Burrowing into his hair, loudly confirming his consent even as his tongue only forms soft gasps and groans. 

It’s ridiculous. Like sleep. Not needed for them. Not needed… like food, like drink, like friends, like… love. 

It is needed. It’s ached in his ribs, bouncing through dark gaps. It’s stuck in his craw when he swallowed vintage after vintage, lie after lie. It’s curled insidiously through his veins like choking ivy over his mortar. Maybe not this carnal lust, but the ache of wanting him close. Needing him close. Needing his laughs and his smiles and his clucking disapproval and his wicked mind and…

He loves him. Oh, stars, how he loves him. ‘I don’t even like you’. He’d said it, because it wasn’t a lie. He didn’t like him. He _loved_ him. And love meant more than like. It meant fighting desperately to keep him alive. Refusing him holy water, refusing him rebellion, because he was sure it was wrong. 

It hadn’t been. He had. His misguided attempts to keep them both together, mingled with his utter terror at facing the truth - this truth - that love was… love was stronger than any hate could be. She had done that right. She’d made love so strong that even a demon couldn’t fight it, when it was real. 

That even an angel couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried.

_Do you want this?_

Nose under ear. Eyes closed. Legs tangling. Bodies merging, even if all they do is push and pull. Breathing more complicated than the finest of symphonies could ever hope to recreate, emotion more exquisitely painful than any book, any story, any…

_**Yes.** _

His hand reaches lower, finds an answer in flesh. Crowley, curved in his arms, held and loved and wanted and wanting. So ready to sleep in his presence, to offer him his home as he makes himself as vulnerable as it’s possible to be. Out in the stars, with nothing to distract, to hide behind. No social cues, no interruptions, no way to be anything but yourself. 

_**YES.** _

***

Aziraphale startles, at the sudden interruption. Something - he was - isn’t…

His eyes open and he realises he was dreaming. He’d fallen asleep, in Crowley’s bed. He’d been all the way over to the edge, but he’d moved in his sleep and wrapped himself around the demon and…

And.

He has a hand in his pants. And an earlobe between his lips. And a Crowley who is most certainly awake, too, though he’s suddenly tense and unsure in his arms. 

“...angel?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I - I was asleep, I--”

“Did… should I leave?” 

It’s his bed. He’s just been groped, in his sleep. In his own bed. And Crowley’s first thought is to offer to _leave_ , just to save his angel any further embarrassment.

“...do you want to?” Aziraphale asks. “I mean… leave.”

“Yes. No! I mean. No, I don’t want to… do you want me to?”

Aziraphale laughs, then, at the ridiculousness of it. “I want you to not want to leave, if it’s what you want.”

Now Crowley laughs. “Run that by me more simply. You have a hand on my - ah - trouser snake.”

“...really, dear? That’s what you call it?”

“Smart later, angel. Do I stay, or--”

“You said I could,” Aziraphale reminds him, and places a very, very soft kiss to his neck, to test it out. “Stay, that is. But I wouldn’t want to if it wasn’t with you.”

He feels something travel through the demon’s body, and then a hand touches fingertips over the back of his hand, wonderingly. “I want you to. Stay. And me. Stay.”

“So, we stay,” Aziraphale concludes, and closes his eyes to rest his cheek against the demon’s own. “I’m sorry I’ve been so…”

“You. You’ve been you, angel.”

“...well I’m still--”

“Exactly who I want.” He says it so simply, so honestly, that Aziraphale is sure the world cracked in half. Or is that his heart?

“I feel the same. I always have.”

“You could maybe kiss me before you put that in me,” the demon suggests, with an arch of his spine that suggests he’s more than - oh so very more than - willing to entertain this.

“I’m sorry I… this isn’t how I would have--”

“Kiss me,” Crowley growls. “For fuck’s sake. I’ve been waiting long enough. Kiss me.”

It’s part command, part entreaty, and Aziraphale bends forwards to meet him half way. 

He tastes of him, of affection and sleep and desire and love and patience and all the stories the angel has ever read and more. He tastes of years of knowing, wanting, waiting. He tastes like home, and Aziraphale thinks maybe he is.

But he’s going to insist on more books. Somehow, he doubts he’ll have any difficulty convincing his demon to work with him on that. 

Later. First, he needs to make it up to him.

Forever. Forever, with someone who knows him better than he knows himself. With someone he can truly be himself with, good and bad. 

Eternity sounds much more appealing that way, now. And sleeping isn’t the waste he thought it was.


End file.
